


these soldiers have sun-fired bones

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rescue, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28916844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Only a few years after being Knighted, one of Feemor's missions takes a turn for the worse. He's saved from certain death by a Mandalorian in black and red armor, a Mandalorian who just happens to be looking for the same long-lost artefact that Feemor is after. With Feemor injured, they have to work together to find it, but that's just the start of the trouble.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Xanatos (Star Wars), Jaster Mereel/Feemor (Star Wars), Stass Allie/Arla Fett
Comments: 124
Kudos: 848





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelastbattlecry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastbattlecry/gifts).



> Age difference warning, again: Jaster is about 32 here, and Feemor is 25, in case that's a squick.

“I can't believe you're _still_ serious about training to become a Guardian,” Xanatos says, annoyed.

It would be more alarming with someone else. But Xanatos has two settings, Feemor has found, and one is annoyed and the other is haughty. This annoyed has shades of protectiveness to it, and that’s enough to make him smile, even if it’s slightly wry.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he says, and Xanatos makes a sound like a cat dropped in a bathtub. Unable to help himself, Feemor grins, and adds, “Being a Guardian is an honorable thing, Xan. Master Drallig suggested it himself.”

Even with the flickering holo, Feemor can see the way Xanatos wrinkles his nose, still flipping idly though one of the massive texts he’s probably supposed to be translating. “You were in line to get a _padawan_ ,” he says, prickly all over, and Feemor's smile fades a little despite his best efforts.

“Xan,” he says, pained.

Xanatos looks up, eyes _sharp_ , and he’s never exactly peaceable, but right now he’s _furious_. “You _were_ ,” he snaps, like Feemor was protesting that part of his words. “You were ready to become a Master, and then—”

“Xanatos,” Feemor says quietly, because Xanatos is sixteen and he’s still grieving. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Xanatos says, and three months ago it would have been furious, _poisonous_. Now it’s just tired. “But I'm still the _cause_.”

“You're not,” Feemor says firmly, and glances up. The sun is getting high, and he needs to get moving at some point, but—Master Drallig will understand. Besides, he has two weeks to finish this mission. An extra hour spent talking to Xanatos won't keep him from completing it. “Xanatos, Master Qui-Gon’s actions are his own, and you're not at fault for them. Your _father’s_ actions are his own, too.”

“Yes,” Xanatos says bitterly. “I _know_. And when I fell, and Master Jinn told everyone I was dead, and _disavowed_ you—”

It still hurts a little, to hear it said plainly. Most people tiptoe around the wording, skirt it and take care not to touch the wound. Of course Xanatos would throw himself into it headfirst. But—it’s not a bad thing. Feemor gets tired of the tiptoeing, and there's a twisted sort of comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only one Qui-Gon disavowed in the aftermath of everything.

“Joining the Guard doesn’t have to be forever,” Feemor says gently, because with how prickly he is Xanatos doesn’t get gentleness from many people. Feemor's always rather thought that was a shame. “It’s not a life sentence, Xanatos. You know that, right?”

Xanatos looks at him, hidden away in the depths of the Archives with stacks of books all around him, long hair tangled and eyes red with what could be either sleeplessness or evidence of the fact that he’s been crying. He looks terrible, and Feemor feels something in his chest turn over, clench. He wants to be there, to be a shoulder for Xanatos to lean on, but at the same time, he _can't_.

“It doesn’t _have_ to be a life sentence,” Xanatos says, always too clever, too ready to say what he shouldn’t. “But you aren’t planning to ever leave it and take a padawan, are you?”

Feemor swallows. He doesn’t have anything to say to that. “Not every Jedi takes a padawan,” he manages, which is the furthest thing from a denial.

From the tightening of Xanatos’s mouth, he knows that too. “I _should_ have killed him when I had the chance,” he says viciously, but Feemor doesn’t have to be in the same room to know that it’s a lie.

“No,” he says softly. “You shouldn’t have. Then you really would have fallen all the way to the Dark Side. You managed to come back, Xanatos. Be proud of that.”

Xanatos slumps forward, burying his face in his arms, just a dark head amid a pile of books. “He told everyone I was _dead_ ,” he says, plaintive in a way he never is with anyone else, never is with Feemor unless he’s on the edge, and Feemor sighs.

“I know,” he says quietly. “What Master Jinn did was wrong, even if he wasn’t expecting you to come back. But you did, and you proved him wrong. And Master Yoda welcomed you back, didn’t he?”

Xanatos doesn’t answer, but his breaths are rough, a little wet, and he keeps his face hidden. Feemor lets him, because Xanatos doesn’t deal well with vulnerability, and this whole situation has already stripped his defenses away countless times. Instead, he smiles a little, leaning back on the sun-warmed rock, and says, “You're getting a new Master, too. That’s exciting, right?”

“She’s _six hundred years old_ ,” Xanatos says, muffled. “Master Yoda apprenticed me to some old _crone_ who totters around the Outer Rim helping people dig themselves out of _mudslides_ , and I'm going to be expected to _help_ —”

Feemor isn't grinning. He’s _not_. That would do damage to Xanatos’s fragile ego, and Feemor isn't that cruel.

“Master Fay is the most powerful Jedi in the Order,” he says diplomatically, and Xanatos tips his head just enough to give him a narrow stare out of one eye. “I’m sure she’ll be a good Master for you, Xanatos, and seeing more of the Outer Rim and the people there will be good for you.”

Xanatos scoffs, showing what he thinks of that, but he raises his head, leaning on his crossed arms. “What are you even looking for?” he asks abruptly, squinting like he’s trying to see past the edges of the holo to Feemor's location.

Feemor sighs, but it’s fond. “Xan, you aren’t even supposed to know that I'm a Guardian. We’re supposed to be anonymous.”

Xanatos rolls his eyes expressively. “Then they should work harder at hiding your identities,” he says derisively, like he isn't one of the cleverest padawans in his age group. No one else would have been able to recognize Feemor from the way he tugged his gloves up, Feemor thinks it’s safe to say. “Well? It looks like you're in the middle of nowhere.”

“Because it is the middle of nowhere,” Feemor says fondly. He considers his options for a moment, then snorts, leaning back on one hand, and says, “I'm not telling you where. But Master Drallig sent me to find an artefact that Master Tholme heard rumors of in this area. It was stolen from the Temple a little after Master Tarre Vizsla’s Darksaber disappeared. I think Master Drallig is hoping the Darksaber will be nearby, too.”

Interest sharpens the too-lean lines of Xanatos’s face. “An artefact? Which one? What is it? What does it do?”

Feemor shakes his head. “No one knows. It’s called _Ensnared Virtue_ , but that’s all the records say.”

“Ensnared Virtue,” Xanatos repeats, frowning, and glances up at the stacks around him. “I can research it, if you want. A lot of things from that long ago still aren’t entirely logged, so a search of the systems would miss them.”

“Would you?” Feemor asks, surprised and grateful, and smiles. “Thank you, Xanatos. That would be a great help. I’ll call back in about eight hours and see what you have.”

“Eight hours?” Xanatos says, wrinkling his nose. “It won't take me that long—”

“It will if you take a break to eat,” Feemor says placidly, and when Xanatos scowls, he just raises a brow. “Until Master Fay gets there, please _try_ to take care of yourself, Xanatos. I’ll try to be back in time to see you off, all right?”

“And you’re going to comm in eight hours,” Xanatos says warningly, which is close enough to an agreement that Feemor will take it.

“Eight hours,” he promises, and lets Xanatos see him set the notification. “Eat something. And _drink_ something. But not in the Archives.”

“I _wouldn’t_ ,” Xanatos says, and that version of haughty is almost entirely full of horror. It makes Feemor laugh, and he picks up his mask, pulling it on.

“I know,” he agrees, and pretends he doesn’t see the way Xanatos’s mouth tightens at the rasp of his voice through the vocoder. Feemor doesn’t mind the Guard’s formal robes and mask; it’s part of the uniform, represents the duty, and Feemor's accepted that part gladly. “But I wanted to say it just in case.”

Xanatos rolls his eyes. “Eight hours,” he says again, and Feemor chuckles. “Oh Force, please _never_ do that again, you sound like a _chrysalid_ —”

“You don’t know what a chrysalid sounds like,” Feemor says patiently. “Eat, drink, shower. I’ll comm you, Xanatos, you have my word.”

“This list of things I'm supposed to do seems to keep growing longer,” Xanatos says pointedly, and Feemor pulls up his mask just enough to give him a grin. It makes Xanatos pull a face, and a moment later the signal cuts out with a hiss.

Chuckling, because Xanatos always knows how to get in the last word, Feemor readjusts his mask, then picks up his staff and rises to his feet. The day is warm, and he probably doesn’t _need_ to wear the mask when there’s no permanent settlement on this planet, but half of his training period with the Guard is just adjusting to their customs. They're an old order with the Temple, full of ritual and custom, and Feemor likes the structure, the guidelines. He always has, with that sort of thing, and being able to have that even when he’s no longer a padawan is more of a relief than he’d thought. It’s been a solid six years since he was Knighted, but—

Well. Stass says it’s natural to reach for structure in times of upheaval, and Feemor supposes she would know, given her training as a Healer. She’s one of the few who knows all the details of what happened, too, which makes him even more inclined to trust her. 

With a rueful smile for himself alone, Feemor casts a glance up the slope of the mountain, to where golden grasses and scattered stands of trees give way to a steep incline. He’s not going up, thankfully; that’s rather more walking than he wants to do in the heat, and there aren’t enough trees further on to offer shade. Skirting the base of the mountain is already a fair trek, but the ore deposits here do unpleasant things to ships’ systems, and landing well away from them was the only option.

Slinging his staff over his shoulder, Feemor picks up his pace, skirting boulders and a small stream that leaves a splash of green in the middle of the meadow. The Guard robes are heavy, but cut for easy movement at least, and Feemor raises a hand to block the light a little, squinting up the slope and then checking his coordinates. There's no clearly defined place he’s headed for, and no exact location for the stolen relic, assuming it’s here, but the urge to go in this direction is an easy, soft thing against Feemor's skin, like the sunlight but deeper. Following the pull of the Force is more reliable than coordinates, regardless.

If Feemor is lucky, and if everything goes well, this will likely be his last training mission as a Guard. Even being allowed to leave the Temple is a step forward that Feemor hadn’t expected to come so soon; Guards usually stay close, and those dispatched on missions are usually the best among them.

Feemor isn't conceited enough to think that’s why he got this mission. He’s a Knight, and given that he was Qui-Gon’s padawan, he’s used to the stranger missions, so he was a natural choice to go looking for something that no one can identify and which hasn’t been seen in a thousand years. He doesn’t mind that part at all; it’s an interesting mystery, and a challenge, and Feemor likes to test himself that way. In that way, at least, he and Qui-Gon were always well-matched, enjoying the physical.

Not that it matters now, Feemor supposes. He’s been cut off from the lineage, repudiated by his Master. Xanatos because he fell, even if he came back to the light, and Feemor because—because he was there, and an easy target, not being a grand student or particularly remarkable in any way. Easier, then, to simply wipe away the records and start over, ready to take a new padawan and try again.

Feemor sighs, staticky behind his mask, and forces his thoughts away from that path. He isn't actually bitter; even if he doesn’t understand Qui-Gon’s decision, he’s coming to terms with it, and the Guard is a good place for that. They're all anonymous, don’t have to identify themselves to anyone but their commander, and Master Drallig is understanding, sympathetic towards a Knight with nothing else to cling to. He’s been letting Feemor take extra shifts, giving him personal training long after the rest of the Temple has retired, and Feemor wants to honor that. Regardless of what Xanatos says or believes, Feemor _likes_ being a Guard.

If that means he won't be taking a padawan, it’s fine. Feemor doesn’t have a lineage to pass on anymore, doesn’t have any claim to skills that Qui-Gon taught him. Lineages in the Order are like noble houses outside of it, and Feemor lost his birthright. But—he can manage without it. He doesn’t _need_ to make a name for himself. All he needs is a sense of duty, an honorable task, and the Guard gives him both.

His comm gives a quiet beep, signaling he’s at the coordinates he entered, and Feemor pauses, checking it and then looking up. He’s a short way up the slope of the mountain, waist-deep in dry grass. The treeline starts a few hundred meters above, narrow bands of green striping the gold of the mountainside, and in the pale brown robes of the Guard Feemor feels a little like he’s about to vanish into the scenery, disappear completely. The feeling prickles at him, unnerving, and he frowns, looks around him. An outcropping of bare stones jut from the grass a handful of meters away, and he makes for them, leaps up and pauses there.

He has a bad feeling about this, Feemor thinks with resignation, tightening his grip on his staff. Somehow, very soon, this mission is going to get _interesting_.

There's no trail to follow, no signs of feet crossing the field or even animal trails headed for the forest. The whole place looks pristine and untouched, which is lovely, and Feemor appreciates it because it’s _beautiful_ , but it’s also not very helpful where finding Ensnared Virtue is concerned.

“I don’t even know what it _looks_ like,” he says to the sun and the wind. There's no answer, of course, and Feemor supposes that’s what Xanatos’s research is for. It’s still frustrating, though, and Feemor sighs, sinks down on the stone, and lays his staff across his lap. When he closes his eyes, evens out his breathing, there's no sudden surge of clarity, but Feemor knows better than to rush. He just breathes, letting himself settle, his mind open. Outward focus for inward reflection, accepting the flow of the Force through him that makes him just another part of the weave of the universe, and this at least is still a comfort.

The Force isn't a voice, isn't a whisper. It’s already within, and Feemor just needs to listen to himself to figure out where he should be going.

He’s deep in his meditation when there's a flutter, a thump. Feemor doesn’t startle, but he opens his eyes, studying the black and white bird sitting on the stone in front of him. It has a tall crest of red feathers, startling against the monochrome of its body, and Feemor smiles a little. There's no fear in it, just curiosity as it cocks its head and shuffles closer, and Feemor reaches out slowly, offering it a hand. It climbs onto his fingers without a trace of hesitation, making Feemor laugh quietly, and when he raises a finger to stroke its breast, it catches the gold tip of his gloved finger, tugs like it’s going to steal the whole glove right off his hand.

“A bold one,” he says admiringly, and the bird warbles in response, then takes flight, wings sweeping Feemor's mask as it rises. He watches it go, following its path to the east before it drops down behind a series of cliffs, and then pauses, considering. It feels…not like a tug. But maybe like the right decision to follow the bird in that direction. Like a sign, too, in a way—Feemor has only been back to his home planet a handful of times, but on Celidon birds are messengers, guides.

There's nothing to say that the religion of an Outer Rim planet has any connection to the Force, but Feemor still believes regardless. There's overlap between interpretation and faith, and the belief in the Force speaks through everything.

When the Jedi found him, an orphan in a group home, a little too strange and wild even at four years old, Feemor had been dreaming of brown and gold birds for months already. The caretakers raised them all on stories of sacred hawks, heroes blessed with feathers that shone in the sun, and Feemor had known there was meaning, had looked for it even then.

The Jedi in their earth-colored robes and bright undertunics were everything he hadn’t known to want, and he’d gone with them gladly. His father was a farmer, and Feemor would have been one too if he had stayed, but—there were wings and open skies in his dreams, and he couldn’t bear the thought of not following them.

Feemor slides to his feet, then drops his staff over his shoulders, hooking his arms over it as he starts in the direction of the cliffs. They're farther up, a section of the mountainside that looks like it’s been sheered off into jagged edges and bare stone, with the faint shimmer and distant roar of a waterfall between the cliffs. The trees around it are thicker, but Feemor can't sense any predators, and he makes it to the first line of trunks with one eye still on the bright sky, looking for wings. He thinks he catches a flash of them towards the peak, but when he turns his head to look, there’s nothing but the shadow of a cloud.

If nothing else, Feemor decides, he can camp by the waterfall, to keep himself from having to hike all the way back to his ship and then return again tomorrow. It’s warm enough, and this part of the planet is still in summer, with steady temperatures, so it won't be cold. There's plenty of searching to do now that he has a general idea of where to look, and staying nearby will let him settle a little, get used to the land so he can feel the pull of the Force more clearly. And if Xanatos does manage to find something, Feemor can start looking first thing in the morning and not waste any time.

Pleased, Feemor picks his way up the wooded slope, boots slipping a little in the leaflitter. He can catch glimpses of the river through the trees, and the edge of the first cliff casts a deep shadow over the woods, close and looming. It looks like there are openings in the rocks, caves, and when Feemor squints through the branches, he can just make out dark shapes against the pale stone, fluttering and swooping. More of the red-crested birds, Feemor thinks, and the idea that there's space inside the cliffs, either tunnels or just shallow caves, makes interest and instinct prickle.

If he were going to hide a stolen Jedi artefact, he would definitely put it somewhere ships couldn’t easily reach and the naked eye couldn’t see, but which could be easily found if needed. A cave in a cliff full of ore that disrupts technology seems like the perfect spot. Master Drallig will be pleased that his informant was right, even if the woman couldn’t give him an exact location.

Swinging his staff down to avoid the close trunks, Feemor pulls himself up the last few meters of the steep incline, onto more level ground, and takes a pause to catch his breath, glancing back down the mountain. He still can't see anything moving, but that same sense of unease from before is still close, lodged beneath his skin like a sliver that won't come out.

There's a rustle of leaves, a low chirp, and Feemor turns back to find a different bird perched on the branch beside him. This one has more white on its breast, a touch of red on its wings, and it’s not nearly as friendly as the first. Watchful, curious but in a flat sort of way, and Feemor doesn’t try to approach, just inclines his head to it. It doesn’t move, doesn’t stop staring, but Feemor just picks his way past, out of the trees and onto the bank of the swift-running river.

The whole area looks like a gully, a wide basin between the arms of the cliffs, and the river is quick and deep, flowing over a bed of black stone that’s at least five meters wide. It looks treacherous to cross, but a long leap will probably get Feemor across safely enough, and the other side looks stable. There are caves he can see in the base of that cliff, near to the ground, and it seems as good a place to start investigating as any. Feemor takes a step—

Sunlight catches on slick black stone, and there's a distant warning shout just as Feemor turns.

The riverbed is _moving_. Feemor has a fraction of a second to see it coming, to turn and throw up a barrier of concentrated force before it hits him, and it’s like getting hit by a _ship_ , massive and impossible to block. He goes flying back, hits the trunk of a tree so hard his vision goes black, but there's no time. Even as he tumbles to the ground he’s moving, landing in a roll and rising to his feet in a crouch with both ends of his staff ignited. There's just enough time to throw himself sideways, out of the path of meter-long claws that slide right through the trunk of the tree behind him, and Feemor curses, rolls upright, spins and brings his blade up. He slices right through another claw before it can take his head off, ducks low and beneath the paw attached, and kicks out hard.

Thick scales absorb the blow like it’s nothing, and Feemor hisses out a breath, spins—

Six legs, not four the way he was expecting, and a foot hits him square in the chest, drives him down into the soft earth with a cry of pain. Impact crushes every bit of air from his lungs, and there's a sharp _wrench_ as a claw goes right through his sashes and armor, pierces through his shoulder and into the ground below. Feemor's vision swims, and he grabs desperately for his staff, but it’s just out of reach.

Concentration is hard to grasp, but Feemor tries for it. tries to grasp the Force, call his staff back, but it’s impossible. His vision swims towards darkness, washed with sparks of pain, and he can't breathe, can't push against the weight of the beast looming over him. It bends its head towards him, long serpentine neck curling, and it’s black as pitch, shining with river water. A guardian, all the better to hide a stolen artefact behind, Feemor thinks, and reaches—

The crack of a blaster echoes between the cliffs, and in the same instant the beast howls, recoiling.

The shift of its weight is enough. Feemor twists, gets a foot up, shoves. Its claw jerks out of his shoulder, and through the wave of agony Feemor lunges, grabs his staff, and turns. Another blaster-shot echoes, and there's a splatter of violet blood, a bellow of pain. Feemor doesn’t hesitate; he swings, taking a leg off at the joint, then ducks right under the huge chest as the beast roars and drives his staff up. Plasma sinks into dark scales as another shot sounds, and this time when the beast jerks there's no roar. It lists, and Feemor is right underneath it, sees it coming and knows he won't get out in time.

There's no chance. It hits him hard as he tries to leap free, and this time when he slams into the ground Feemor's vision goes entirely black for a long, long moment.

When it clears, he’s completely pinned, aching and unable to breathe. One of his arms is stuck beneath a curling horn that’s dug deep into the dirt, and when Feemor grits his teeth and shoves at the bulk that’s covering him, there's nowhere near enough strength in him to move any part of the beast.

With a breathless curse, Feemor drops his head back, fighting to breathe. It _hurts_ , and he groans, shoves again and gets no relief. There's a buzzing in his head, and his vision is slipping, and he _knows_ he should try to comm for help, but just as clearly he knows that no one will reach him in time.

He was almost done with his training, too, Feemor thinks, gritting his teeth. That’s…worse, somehow.

And then, soft, there are footsteps next to his head.

“Easy,” a low voice says, and metal flashes in the sun, almost blinding. “Can you move?”

Help. The marksman. Feemor can't breathe, but he nods jerkily, because he _will_ and there’s no other option.

“Good,” the armored man says, and that thought should mean something, but it slips out of Feemor's grasp. “On three, try to pull yourself clear. One. Two. Three—”

He heaves, throwing all of his weight forward, and the beast’s body shifts. Not much, not more than a few inches, but the ground is soft here. It’s enough, and with a cry of effort Feemor drags himself forward, rolls free and crumples into the grass, arm still wedged beneath the horn, his whole body burning in a way that can't mean anything good. Choking on a sob, he buries his face in the cool grass, trying to make his lungs work, and feels a hand on his shoulder.

There's no part of Feemor that has the strength to resist, and he lets the man roll him over, slide his arm free. Then there are hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, propping him up against a rock, and Feemor groans, tips his head back. He tries to remember what Stass taught him about healing, but everything is fuzzy and fading.

“That was well-fought, even for a Jedi,” the man says, and gentle hands touch Feemor's mask. The idea of more air is a good one, so Feemor doesn’t protest as he pulls it off, just blinks up into the bright sunlight as he tries to focus.

He can see gold against black metal. Two streaks of gold, curving out, and to his fading vision, they almost look like wings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Current update schedule for this ridiculousness:
> 
> 31 January - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 2 February - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 7 February - and love is a call to arms  
> 9 February - somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond  
> 14 February - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 16 February - trade your heart for bones to know  
> 21 February - and love is a call to arms  
> 23 February - you will open your wounds (and make them a garden)  
> 28 February - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 2 March - efface the footprints in the sands  
> 7 March - and love is a call to arms  
> 9 March - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers

Jaster isn't entirely sure what he expected to find beneath the mask of ivory and gold, but—not what he does, certainly.

Dazed, breathless, the Jedi half-turns his head, and he’s younger than Jaster would have expected beneath the ornate robes, gasping for breath like he can't get air. Given the size of the beast that fell on him, Jaster is mostly surprised he isn't entirely dead, and he catches the man’s shoulder, eases him back a little.

“Slowly,” he orders. “The ground is soft here. I don’t think anything is broken.”

Blue eyes flutter closed, and the Jedi nods, still struggling to breathe. Jaster watches him closely for a moment, but he doesn’t seem to be in the midst of dying, so Jaster sits back, digs for bacta and a bandage while the Jedi tries to make compressed lungs work again. There's a thick, steady flow of blood soaking the shoulder of his robes, a puncture that looks deep enough to need immediate medical attention, but Jaster can't see any other Jedi, saw none on his way in. A quick patch will have to do for now, and he reaches for the neck of the Jedi’s robes, undoing the sash there.

It’s a surprise to find armor beneath the soft cloth, white armor marked with gold the same way the mask is. Jaster pauses, caught off-guard, because he’d thought the Jedi didn’t _wear_ armor, even in the worst circumstances. Then again, he’s never seen a Jedi dressed quite like this before—the mask alone is startling, as is the heavy leather armor around the Jedi’s hips, the wide leather belt, the strange cut of the ankle-length robe. Potentially a Jedi with a strange fashion sense, but all the others Jaster has seen have followed the same basic formula of robes and tunics in cream and brown, and he wonders what the difference here is.

“I need to get this off,” Jaster says, and the Jedi’s eyes flicker open again. He stares up at Jaster, like he can't process the words at first, then grimaces and reaches up, fumbling at his shoulder. Jaster follows his fingers and finds the catch, then quickly unhooks the breastplate and pulls it free. The pauldrons seem like separate pieces, but they're strapped over cloth, so Jaster gets them unbuckled as well, then sets them aside.

“I’ll admit, I've never seen a Jedi in armor before,” he says, light, more to keep the man awake than anything. Beneath the white and gold sashes and the heavy outer robe, there's a tight brown shirt, covered with thick brown gloves that go almost to the elbow and are wrapped with cloth. Jaster snorts, unwinding the lengths, and adds, “Or this many layers. Am I going to kill you by exposing your skin to open air?”

The Jedi makes a low, breathless sound that’s something akin to a laugh, and his mouth curves. “C-ceremonial,” he gets out, and reaches up, unbuckling one of the gloves, then the other. It’s a relief to see his hands a little steadier than before; Jaster had honestly thought he was going to have to sit with the Jedi while he died, and he would have done it, but—it’s a grim thing, regardless of their status as traditional enemies. A relief, too, to see the flicker of a half-smile as the Jedi says, “Padding.”

With a snort, Jaster helps him ease the robes down around his waist, then pauses. The undershirt is fitted close to the skin, tight enough that it can't be pulled down, and getting it up over the Jedi’s head to pull it off doesn’t seem overly plausible right now either. He considers for a moment, then says, “I need to cut your shirt off.”

The Jedi grimaces faintly, but nods, reaching for his belt. Before he can draw a lightsaber or something equally ridiculous, though, Jaster catches his wrist, then leans forward, his knife in hand. It’s the work of a moment to slit open the high neck and shoulder of the shirt, and Jaster carefully pulls it away from the Jedi’s skin, easing the shreds of it away from the wound. It doesn’t look quite as bad as Jaster had feared, but—

Hard to focus on that when there's suddenly an expanse of tangled, jewel-blue lines beneath his fingertips, inked into the Jedi’s skin. Jaster pauses, caught by the twisting, interlocking pattern of the lines, the knot that starts in the center of the Jedi’s chest and spreads outward, trees and animals caught in the tangles. It’s beautiful, clearly something with meaning, but Jaster has never seen the like before.

It’s only the sight of broken lines, torn skin, that breaks him out of his wonder, and he drags himself back to the task at hand with a flicker of self-recrimination.

“Brave of you to trust a Mandalorian with a knife at your throat,” he says, mild, and isn't sure what sort of reaction he expects. A sermon, maybe, because the handful of Jedi he’s spent any time around haven’t exactly been appealing conversationalists, but—

Not another breathless sound of laughter, rough and winded. The Jedi tips his head, fingers fumbling faintly with one of the pouches on his belt, and when Jaster reaches down and undoes it for him, he nods in thanks and pulls out a sealed jar of bacta.

“Helping,” he manages, tapping Jaster's hand, pressing the jar into his fingers. “That’s—can trust that.”

“Not entirely selflessly,” Jaster tells him, even as he smears bacta over the wound. The pressure makes the Jedi grimace, but he doesn’t move, and Jaster is reluctantly impressed. It’s a deep wound, even if it isn't wide. “There are more of those beasts nearby, and blasters alone don’t tend to kill them.”

There's a pause, then a huff. The Jedi tips his head back, eyes closing for a moment, and Jaster can see him swallow. “Cave,” he gets out, and Jaster looks from him to the cliffs, considering.

“I’d thought the caves served as a nesting ground,” he says, wary. It’s one of the things that’s kept him away from them, skirting the edges of the cliffs and looking for a back entrance instead of making his way inside through the front.

The Jedi grabs for the rock behind him, pushes like he’s going to haul himself to his feet, and Jaster sighs. He pushes the man back down, barely any pressure needed to shove him back to the ground, and he collapses there with a sound of dismay, face twisting with pain.

“Not yet,” Jaster says sternly. “At least let me stop the bleeding first.”

The man blinks at him, then huffs, his mouth curving in self-directed humor as he nods. “Sorry,” he says, and when Jaster gets a hand on his shoulder and pushes him forward, he goes easily, leans forward and lets Jaster smooth bacta over the exit wound as well.

“That’s quite all right,” Jaster says, a little bemused. “But where precisely did you think you were going?”

A vague pass of the Jedi’s good hand is entirely expressive, given how Jaster can imagine he feels after a giant lizard landed on him. “Minds,” he says, then pauses. Takes a breath, and says, more deliberately and clearly, “There aren’t any…minds. In the caverns. That I can sense.”

There are seven different questions on the tip of Jaster's tongue, lined up and waiting to be asked now that he has a Jedi in front of him. For all that the Jedi are Mandalore’s traditional enemies, Mandalore itself has almost no information on them, and Jaster hasn’t had the time to go looking elsewhere. There's hearsay, spacer tales, vague rumors, but Jaster knows better than to put stock in such things without proof. Proof that he could _have_ , here and now, if the Jedi hadn’t been half-crushed to the point that he can barely speak.

“Is there someone you can comm?” he asks, and blue eyes slide back to him, attentive despite how much pain the Jedi must be in. “Backup?”

The Jedi is shaking his head before Jaster even finishes. “T-Temple Guardian,” he says, rough, and presses a hand to his chest, grimacing. “Solo mission.”

Jaster doesn’t ask why he’s out here if he’s meant to be guarding the Jedi Temple, even though he wants to. “What are the odds you have a bacta tank on your ship?”

The Jedi’s snort says precisely what those odds are. Jaster supposes that it’s too much to expect for a servant of the Senate, and a member of the religious order that preaches simplistic ways of life, to have something so costly wandering around the galaxy with any Jedi on a mission.

Still, a hand closes over Jaster's vambrace, and when he glances up, the Jedi gives him a smile. It’s a pretty thing, even with half of his face smeared with mud, only a few patches of his neat bit of beard left clean. “Just—sleep,” he says. “I need—to sleep.”

Jaster raises a brow, because he might drive his medics to distraction, but he knows better than to let someone with a head injury sleep. “Unless you Jedi are impervious to getting your brains rattled around your skulls,” he says, “I would advise against that—”

But the Jedi is shaking his head, quick, and the flash of his smile shouldn’t be nearly so charming, like he’s inviting Jaster to share in his humor. “Healing trance,” he says, and waves a halfhearted hand at himself. “I can—it helps.”

A healing trance. That’s not something Jaster has ever encountered reference to before, and he’s rather intrigued. “Will you be aware during it?” he asks, but he’s already moving, sliding an arm behind the Jedi’s back and hauling him up. The Jedi hisses, but moves with him gamely, and he hooks his good arm over Jaster's shoulders and staggers along when Jaster starts walking.

“Yes,” the Jedi answers breathlessly, “and no. But—safe—” He breaks off, like he can't quite catch his breath, and grimaces.

Jaster has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but getting them both out of sight and under cover doesn’t seem like a bad idea. He’s seen more than once that these beasts aren’t picky; there will likely be another one coming along shortly to make a meal of the one they killed.

“The caves it is,” he says, and the Jedi nods determinedly, clinging to Jaster's shoulder as he steers them forward. The edge of the river makes Jaster pause, but before he can make a decision about how to get them across, the Jedi raises a hand. His eyes narrow, his body goes still, and he breathes out long and slow, lifting one hand sharply.

Even with all the things he’s seen and experienced, it’s still one of the oddest things in the galaxy to find himself lifted right off of his feet by something he can’t see, like gravity just reversed. Jaster manages not to grab for the Jedi, not to jerk or gasp or anything else demeaning, but it’s still _fascinating_ , the way the Jedi lifts them right across the river as easily as Jaster might have picked up Arla or Jango when they were small. It’s clear it does take effort, though; as soon as Jaster's boots hit solid ground, the Jedi lets his power go, stumbles and almost collapses, and his face is pale beneath his tan, his breath coming harder. Jaster tightens his grip on him, pulling him up, and makes for the closest entrance to the caves that he can see, a narrow crack a few meters from the waterfall.

“I do have a jetpack,” he points out, amused, and the Jedi blinks, then huffs, laughing at himself even as he tries to keep his footing. He waves a hand, like a silent apology, and Jaster snorts, switching his helmet lights on as they pass into the cave. It’s not quite as dark as he expects, lit by cracks in the stone from above, but the shadows are thick and strange, not quite falling as they should.

There's nothing overtly wrong that Jaster can put his finger on, though, and he gives the space one quick, wary look over and then makes for a moss-covered depression along one wall. It isn't full of water, seems dry and serviceable, and the moss will likely be softer for the Jedi than bare stone, so Jaster kneels down there, helping the Jedi settle himself.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, leaning over the man, but the Jedi shakes his head and closes his eyes, one hand finding his chest and splaying there. The lines of his tattoos seem to glow in the low light, vivid and intriguing, and Jaster finds his eyes tracing down them, to where the Jedi’s robes pool around his waist and cover the bottom of the marking.

“Rest,” the Jedi says, eyes already closing, and there's a trace of relief in his voice. He turns his head a little, giving Jaster a quick smile, and adds, “Thank you.”

Jaster reaches up, pulling his helmet off and settling it beside him, because he took the Jedi’s mask and this only seems fair. “You're quite welcome,” he says. “How long will you be asleep?”

With a grimace, the Jedi shakes his head, and he makes to push up on one elbow, opening his mouth.

“As long as it takes, then,” Jaster says soothingly, pushing him back down with a firm hand. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

There's no hesitation as the Jedi inclines his head, sinking back. The smile he aims at Jaster is wry, but grateful, and he nods, reaching out. Bemused, Jaster catches his hand, feels the Jedi’s firm squeeze of thanks.

“Feemor,” the Jedi says, and Jaster inclines his head.

“Well met, Feemor,” he says gravely. “I'm Jaster Mereel.”

There's no flood of recognition and alarm, which a little surprising, but also a relief. The Jedi simply smiles at him, then closes his eyes again, tilting his head back. For a moment, nothing seems to happen, but Jaster watches closely, eyes narrowed, as the Jedi’s breathing starts to shift, deepen. Slowly, deliberately, his muscles relax, and his face goes still, serene. There's no visible sign of the Force working, no lights or sounds or anything to signify whether he really is in a healing trance, but he’s also very clearly not dying, and Jaster is willing to take it.

Sitting back on the edge of the hollow, Jaster sets his helmet in his lap, runs a hand through his hair. He watches Feemor for a long moment, then sighs and checks his comm. It’s still dark, whatever deposits are in the rock here playing havoc with it, so there’s no way to call out. Jango and Arla will be fine, though. Myles is watching them, and Montross promised to keep them out of too much trouble while Jaster was gone, which leaves Jaster free to focus on his task.

If this world really is Tarre Vizsla’s tomb, if Jaster really can find his research and journals, and there’s some accounting of the crystal he used to forge the Darksaber—

It’s a longshot. There's every chance the rumors of Tarre being buried here are false, or that he simply found a stone somewhere in his travels and there’s nothing else unique about the Darksaber. But Jaster _needs_ to know, because if he can forge his own, if he can match Tor with a symbol of the reform the True Mandalorians are committed to, he can strengthen his claim to Mandalore’s throne, push out the New Mandalorians and their talk of destroying Mandalore’s culture in the name of peace.

The fact that there's a Jedi here is already a good start, and assuming he survives, he might be exactly what Jaster needs to find Tarre.

Jaster considers Feemor for a long moment, eyes tracing the curls of his tattoos in the darkness, and then he breathes out, sinks back against the wall, and settles in for a long wait.

Feemor still hasn’t commed him.

Irritation has long since soured into alarm in Xanatos’s stomach, tight and dark and full of edges, and the fact that he’s alone in the depths of the Archive probably isn't helping. The trickle of Jedi passing through has slowly dried up over the hours, faded away until Xanatos is entirely solitary, without even the sounds of other people nearby to distract him. Given that that solitude is one of the reasons he comes to the Archives, he might not generally mind, but—

It’s been almost fourteen hours, and Feemor always keeps his promises.

Xanatos slants another look at his quiet comm, debating whether to call Feemor again. He’s gotten error codes the last three times, which has only twisted the worry in his chest up tighter, and he hates to have anything in common with Qui-Gon, loathes even the _implication_ that there might be anything similar about them, even in the scope of a single oft-used phrase, but.

He has a very bad feeling about this.

Logic is something Xanatos is good at, or should be. It’s _logical_ that Feemor hit a snag on his mission, or lost his comm. Even though Xanatos once would have hated to admit it, Feemor is a good Jedi. He’d entirely skilled, and he’s been training even more than normal with his inclusion in the Guard. Xanatos is sharing rooms with him while he waits for his new Master to dig herself out of the depths of the Outer Rim, and he’s seen Feemor drag himself back from training with Master Drallig in the early hours of the morning more often than not, only to collapse for a handful of hours and then haul himself back out of bed and do it all over again.

Feemor is _good_. He wouldn’t have been tapped for the Guard if he weren’t. But knowing that does nothing to change Xanatos’s bad feeling.

Gathering his hair up, more for something to do with his hands than anything, Xanatos digs for a stylus to use to hold it up, doesn’t find one, and gives up a moment later, letting go again. There's a jittery sort of alarm settling into his limbs, and he wants to get up, move, hit something, but there's nothing to hit. Only the stack of books around him, the two pads with their carefully catalogued research, and a darkened comm that isn't changing.

For the briefest, most ridiculous moment, Xanatos considers going to Qui-Gon. He’s in the Temple; Xanatos saw him walking with Tahl earlier in the day, and—surely he would want to know that Feemor was in danger. Surely he can _help_.

It feels a little like being hit in the gut all over again to remember that to Qui-Gon, he and Feemor might as well be strangers in the eyes of tradition. Qui-Gon erased them from his lineage, disavowed them entirely because of what Xanatos did, and there's no chance he’ll suddenly change his mind if he learns that Feemor needs help. He didn’t change it when _Xanatos_ needed help, after all.

Breath rasping, hopelessness rising, Xanatos slumps forward, burying his face in his folded arms and trying to keep himself together. He _hates_ this, hates it with a will and a passion and a fervor that’s half guilt. He’s the one who fell, after all, who used the Dark Side and abandoned the Order and walked away to follow his father’s orders, and it was stupid, it was _idiotic_ to not see how he was being manipulated when he’s an _empath_ , but—he didn’t. That’s entirely on him.

Feemor is the one who came after him, after Qui-Gon had told everyone that he was dead. Feemor found him on Telos IV, about to be appointed to the head of his father’s blast-cratered kriffing _army_ , with no ability to recognize what depths he’d fallen to, and at one point Xanatos had hated Feemor, thought him pathetic, but—

Feemor had helped him see. He’d dragged Xanatos back to some semblance of reason, shaken him out of his madness, and followed when he went to confront his father over the civil war Crion had instigated.

Watching his former Master kill his father was very nearly too much for that newfound sense of sanity.

Miserable, furious, Xanatos thumps his comm against the table a few times, trying not to feel the pull of the new scar on his cheek, trying not to think of Crion falling, trying not to think of his own choices. He was so used to always being perfect, to always making the right choice, with Qui-Gon standing proudly at his shoulder, and then—

It was the wrong choice. Xanatos failed his test for Knighthood, made the wrong decision. And he _knows_ that it’s an oversimplification, but it feels rather like Qui-Gon immediately wrote him off for that one choice, expelled him from his lineage forever and walked away, without making any attempt to fix things. Instead, he told everyone Xanatos had _died_.

Told them he’d died rather than admit that Xanatos had made a mistake. It’s not the truth, not _entirely_ , and Xanatos knows that, but—that’s how it feels sometimes.

“Just _comm_ me already,” he hisses at his commlink, lifting his head enough to jab at the buttons. It pings Feemor's comm, but instead of a pending call or an answered one, there's an error message, like it doesn’t even know Feemor's comm _exists_ , and Xanatos is going to shove it into a _volcano_ —

“Xanatos?” a woman’s voice asks, bemused, and Xanatos freezes, a prickling wash of shame creeping up the back of his neck. Hatred of being seen as weak, he knows, and crushes the feeling ruthlessly, acknowledges it and accepts it and _rejects_ it, because this is Feemor's best friend and he doesn’t _care_ if she saw that he was sad.

There's quite a lot of freedom in not caring what other people think of his reactions, Xanatos is coming to find.

“Knight Allie,” he says, rising and turning to face her as she approaches.

Stass’s smile is quick and kind and a little rueful. “Hello, Xanatos,” she says, and reaches out. Xanatos doesn’t step into the gesture, but he also doesn’t pull away, and apparently Stass takes that as permission. She wraps her arms around him, pulls him into a tight hug, and Xanatos can't breathe for reasons that have nothing to do with how firm her grip is. He curls his fingers into her robe, clutching at her, and buries his face in her shoulder desperately.

Stass strokes his hair for a moment, then gently lets go, pulling back to give him a smile. “I thought I must have missed you leaving with Master Fay,” she says lightly. “I got back from my mission and Feemor's rooms were entirely empty.”

Xanatos’s throat locks up, and swallowing is an effort. “He’s on a mission for the Guardians,” he gets out, and Stass's expression slides into stark worry at whatever she must be feeling from him. “He was—I was doing research for him, and he promised to comm me almost seven hours ago, but when I try I just get an error code—”

Stass stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and she’s frowning, clearly aware of how carefully Feemor keeps to his word, even for simple things like comm calls. “Is something wrong?” she asks, and Xanatos wants to scoff, wants to tell her that _he’s_ hardly the authority on such things, but—

“Yes,” he says, all sharp edges. “ _Yes_ , something is wrong, and I don’t even know where he _is_ , because the Guardians are supposed to be _anonymous_.”

For a moment, Stass doesn’t react, and then she smiles faintly. “Maybe they are,” she says, “but you were doing research for him. On what?”

Xanatos can't help an irritated sound. “On Tarre Vizsla,” he says, rolling his eyes. “ _Technically_. He had some sort of base on another planet, and he hid it, but someone stole the key from the Temple after his death. It’s called Ensnared Virtue or something pretentious—”

“And Feemor was sent to find it?” Stass asks, frowning.

Xanatos makes an impatient gesture. “No one bothered to even _open a book_ ,” he says scathingly, “so Feemor doesn’t even know what he’s meant to be looking for, but Master Drallig sent him anyway.”

Amusement flickers across Stass's face, and she runs a hand over Xanatos’s hair. “Get your research together,” she tells him. “I’ll speak with Master Drallig and find out where Feemor is, and we can go find him.”

Relief _kicks_ , and Xanatos’s hands might shake faintly. He’s…not used to this. Feemor helps, whenever there's trouble, but he’s the only one. The last time Xanatos tried to go to Qui-Gon—

But it doesn’t matter, because Stass _is_ helping, and that’s enough.

“Thank you,” he gets out, because he _should_ , because he is grateful, and even if the words were once entirely unfamiliar, this whole year has been an exercise in learning humility. Xanatos doesn’t hate it as much as he once might have.

Stass smiles at him, then pulls away. She’s still wearing travel-wrinkled robes, Xanatos realizes with a jolt. She must have only returned from her mission minutes ago, but she’s still ready to leave again at a moment’s notice because a friend might be in trouble. “Of course, Xanatos. Hopefully he just dropped his commlink, or damaged it, but it can't hurt to check.”

Feemor doesn’t have a Master to advocate for him if he goes missing on missions anymore. He doesn’t have anyone but his handful of friends. No Master Dooku, no Qui-Gon, no connection to Master Yoda beyond what every initiate shares. And—even if Master Dooku and Master Yoda are willing to ignore Qui-Gon’s disavowal, Feemor is the overly polite, respectful, self-sacrificing type who would never think to _ask_.

Thankfully he has Xanatos and Stass, neither of whom will let that stop them from dragging him out of trouble.

“Master Drallig is usually in Training Salle Nine at this time of the day,” Xanatos manages to get out, and Stass nods determinedly.

“Would you tell Adi where we’re going?” she asks. “If there are problems, she can bring it to the Council. I don’t want us falling off the map like Feemor, in case Master Drallig doesn’t tell anyone else.”

It’s a good idea. Xanatos likely should have thought of it, but—he failed his test for Knighthood, and Stass has been a Knight for years already. That likely means something, and even if Xanatos might have taken umbrage once, right now he can't be anything but grateful.


	3. Chapter 3

There's something hunting them.

Even in the midst of a healing trance, Feemor can feel it, another mind that’s fixed on them, on its own hunger. It moves through the darkness like it knows it’s meant to be there, ad for a brief, dizzying instant Feemor thinks they're one and the same, that _he’s_ the one stalking the shadows, following a trace of scent and heat with avarice rising—

A bird screams, shrill and furious, and Feemor's eyes fly open.

He’s moving before he’s even fully aware, rolling and shoving to his feet and grabbing for the staff laid out beside him, and there's a sound of alarm from somewhere close, a rush of movement. Not a threat, Feemor registers, and doesn’t bother to face it. He turns, and the hunting mind is coming from below, from deeper in the earth, which means—

“Up,” he says. “We need to go up before it gets here.”

“It,” a voice repeats at his ear, and Feemor turns his head enough to see black hair, dark eyes. Jaster, he thinks, and reaches back on instinct, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward into the tunnels. They're narrow and low, and he has to keep his head bent as he moves, but—better than staying and trying to fight in the confines of the cave.

“There’s something hunting us,” Feemor says over his shoulder, and feels Jaster's flicker of surprise, then his answering wash of grim determination. Before he can get more then a few feet on, though, Jaster catches his arm and pulls him to a halt.

“Your armor,” he says, and when Feemor glances back at him in surprise, his mouth curves faintly, amused. “And perhaps pull up your robes.”

Feemor glances down at himself, then snorts at the sight of bare skin, his robes loose around his waist. Letting go of Jaster, he hauls them up and over his shoulder, moving his left arm a little gingerly, and says, amused at himself, “The armor has a hole in it, so I think it can stay. I've abused it enough for now.”

“If you Jedi had decent armor, this wouldn’t be a concern,” Jaster points out, dry, and Feemor can't help but laugh a little, redoing the sashes that cross his chest. Without the undershirt, there's a bit more skin showing that Master Drallig would likely approve of, but at least he’s mostly in one piece, and breathing is easier.

“Spoken like a true Mandalorian,” he says without heat, and Jaster raises a brow at him, bemused.

“A _True_ Mandalorian,” he corrects, and Feemor blinks, replays his words, and laughs.

“My mistake,” he allows, and checks for his comm unit, only to wince. The metal is scored by a deep line, leaving the torn wires exposed, and Feemor might be a fair hand with tech, but…there's no fixing that without a lot of time and effort. And new parts, probably.

Xanatos, he thinks, and swallows. Xanatos has had so many people break their promises to him. And now it looks like Feemor is one of those people, whether he wants to be or not. It kicks at his ribs, flares like alarm; he _won't_ be like Qui-Gon, even in this. He _can't_ , and he refuses to let Xanatos think anyone else has forgotten him, or lied to him. There's a long-range comm on his ship that will work. It’s about an hour’s walk, and Feemor definitely slept through the eight-hour mark for his next call, but Xanatos will hopefully want to hear from him anyway, will hopefully still take his comm even if Feemor _did_ break his word.

“My ship,” he says, and takes a step back. “I need to get to a comm, there's someone waiting—”

Jaster grabs his sash, pulling him to a halt. “I believe you _just_ said that something is hunting us,” he points out, raising a brow. “Which direction is it in?”

Feemor hesitates, fingers tightening on his staff. The thing in the shadows—he can fight it. He isn't _well_ , but he’s better, even if fighting with a staff in a confined space like the tunnels is less than ideal.

“East,” he says after a moment, able to feel an echo of that hunting mind, still fixed on them. The intent makes his skin prickle, some ancient instinct that feels like beating wings in his chest telling him to run, that they're prey, that there's a predator after them and they need to flee. Celidon had plenty of large wildlife that preyed on the inhabitants there, and the feeling isn't as unfamiliar as it could be. “Below us.”

Jaster frowns, fingers drumming on his helmet. “Its size?” he asks, and Feemor hesitates, then shakes his head.

“I feel its mind,” he says. “Not its physical form. It could be as big as that lizard, or as small as a spider.”

“You must not have met some of the more predatory species of spider,” Jaster says dryly, but his eyes are on the tunnel ahead of them, considering. “If it’s coming from below, I assume it can fit through the tunnels. We _might_ make it out the way we came in, but there were more than enough holes around the main tunnel for it to take us by surprise.” He pauses, then casts a deliberate look sideways and says, “I'm sure your Order will forgive you not checking in, given the circumstances.”

“The Order would, always,” Feemor says, and tries for a smile, but it comes out crooked. “But I told my brother I would comm him.”

Something in Jaster's face softens, though he doesn’t loosen his grip. “It will be far harder for you to comm your brother if you get eaten. If we can get above this level, and scale the cliff, my comm might—”

 _Hunger_ flares, and _victory_ is right behind it. Below, Feemor thinks, and lunges, grabbing Jaster around the waist and hurling them both up the slope of the tunnel, just as _something_ cracks the stone right where they were standing. He hits, rolls, and it feels like a great wrenching _pull_ on muscles not entirely healed, deep beneath his skin. A cry wrenches from between his teeth, but he forces himself up, up onto his feet with his staff ignited. The yellow glow of the blade sends the shadows scattering, collapsing in on themselves, but—

Not everywhere. In the doorway of the room they were just in, darkness writhes, twists, comes into focus and then slides right out of it again. A thing with too many limbs pushes up, a low hiss like sliding stone putting all the hair on the back of Feemor's neck up. He can't pick out one solid form; it keeps _moving_ , a clawed arm becoming a stubby limb, a wing with a hooked claw, a feeler, then sinking back into the mass and rising again in a new form entirely.

It’s hungry. It’s nothing _but_ hunger, it feels like, and Feemor staggers, slamming shoulder-first into the wall as that blackness _devours_. His sense of it is rising, deepening, and it’s like the creature is going to swallow him whole, make him part of that instinctive, elemental hunger.

“ _That_ ,” Jaster says in his ear, offended, “was not in _any_ record of this planet—”

Above them, _loud_ , there's a shriek. Claws clatter on stone, and feathers beat, and wings explode into the light of the sun as dozens of the red-crested birds take flight, their sharp cries ringing through the mountain. The sounds reverberate, echo, multiply, and with a keening screech the thing in the shadows recoils, tumbling back into the room.

Feemor doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Jaster by the arm and runs, stumbling on the uneven ground but heading upwards with an instinctive sort of desperation that has no reason behind it, just the pull of the Force. The birds are still shrieking, almost deafening in the confines of the tunnels, and Feemor's head rings with the sound but he doesn’t stop. Trips, catches himself, and then an arm is around his waist, a shoulder is beneath his arm. Jaster steadies him, pulls him onward, and Feemor tugs him sideways, down a long, curving tunnel that’s so low he has to stoop as they run.

“What _was_ that?” Jaster asks, and Feemor shakes his head, out of breath but still moving. He can hear the rumble of the waterfall to their left, and he turns Jaster in the other direction, towards the edge of the cliffs and the sunlight there.

“Hungry,” he says, and when Jaster makes a sound of irritation he can't help but laugh a little. “I don’t know what it is, but I've never felt a mind like that before. The Master who sent me certainly didn’t say anything about it, and he would have if he knew.”

“Just one Master?” Jaster asks, and Feemor can feel the way his attention flickers away from the creature, snaps to several trains of thought at once as his curiosity cuts like a knife’s blade. “I thought it was the Jedi High Council who assigned missions.”

 _Oh_ , Feemor thinks, and does his best not to grin. Like Stass when she gets an interesting medical problem in front of her, or Xanatos when he’s found something _interesting_. Feemor does tend to find himself around those types a lot. “I'm a Jedi Temple Guard,” he says, lifting his staff in illustration. “Master Cin Drallig is the Battlemaster and Chief of Security, so he can order the Guard to undertake missions if they need to, without going through the Council.”

Jaster makes a sound of acknowledgement that belies the sharpness of his attention. “And—”

“I think,” Feemor says kindly, entirely amused to have tripped over another one, “that I need to save my breath for running right now.”

There's a pause, and Jaster slants him a sideways look, careful. Feemor huffs out a breath, and he still feels a little like his lungs have been compressed, but at least it’s better than it was. “Later, I’ll answer,” he promises, and casts a glance behind them. There are still a few birds calling, and his skin prickles, but—the sense of that hungry mind is blunted now, not turned on them. It didn’t feel like _surprise_ that drove it back, but pain, and Feemor thinks of the birds, of the cries, and tightens his grip on his staff.

The birds saved them, and the birds led him here. Coincidence, maybe, but—the Force moves through coincidence, through belief, and Feemor _does_ believe.

“I _will_ be holding you to that,” Jaster says, a warning, and pauses at the point where the tunnel splits. There are seven branching paths, most of them leading upwards, and he scans each of them, then mutters a curse. “Well, _this_ is convenient.”

Gingerly, Feemor pulls away from him, taking a few steps to the center of the hall. He gives each tunnel a quick glance, but there's no distinct pull, no guiding instinct that says to choose one over the other. A little surprised, he frowns, then glances up.

“Oh,” he says, bemused, and a small grey bird with blue eyes cocks its head at him, perched among the low, craggy stones of the tunnel’s roof. It chirps, light and musical, and Feemor smiles, somehow not startled to see it here in the gloom.

“I believe you said something about _running_ , Jedi?” Jaster says dryly, but Feemor can't spare the attention for a response. The bird is watching him, and when he takes a step, it chirps again, and—

Vanishes.

“ _Oh_ ,” Feemor says, as realization strikes, and he takes another step, then leaps. It _hurts_ to catch the edge of the stone, to haul himself past it, but he manages it, sliding up into a narrow space between the juts of stone. It’s all but invisible from any other angle, and Feemor smiles at the small grey bird still watching him, perched on the top of the opening above. There's light up here, and fresh air, and Feemor calls back down, “There’s a path here, if you can make it, Jaster.”

For a long moment, there's nothing but silence below him. Then, deliberate, Jaster sighs, and there's a scrape of leather on stone as he gets a grip on the ledge and pulls himself up. Metal scrapes, and Feemor winces as he realizes the problem—Jaster is a big man, and his armor makes him even bigger. This gap is small enough that it’s tight even for Feemor in his soft robes; Jaster getting though it will take a fair amount of effort.

Quickly, he follows the bird the rest of the way up, hooking his arms over the edge of the opening and rolling up and over the ledge. There's soft moss beneath him, sunlight and a quieter brilliance, but he doesn’t feel anything alarming in the Force, so he doesn’t look, just leans over and offers Jaster a hand.

“More space up here,” he says, and Jaster grunts, twisting partially sideways to get his pauldrons clear of a snag.

“There had better be,” he says, and Feemor laughs, grabbing the hand that comes up. He focuses, just a touch of extra pressure on the armor itself letting Jaster slide through more easily, and pulls, just as Jaster pushes off hard. It’s too much force, and Jaster practically falls over the top of the ledge, slamming into Feemor and knocking him off his knees. Feemor hits the ground with a hiss, the moss not quite enough of a cushion when there’s a heavy pile of armor on top of him, but—

He can't help but laugh, letting his head fall back into the springy softness of it, and grins up at Jaster, who has his helmet back on, his face hidden. “Hello, nice to meet you,” he says merrily, and Jaster snorts, shaking his head.

“ _Jetti_ ,” he says, which doesn’t help the laughter. Feemor waves a hand in apology as Jaster shifts off of him, and carefully sits up, rubbing his shoulder gently. The muscle still aches, and he probably didn’t manage to fix all of the tearing all the way, but—he can work around it, if he’s careful. The healing trance was enough to start repairing everything, and Stass should be back at the Temple by the time he’s finished here. She’ll be able to finish what he’s started.

“This felt like the right way to go,” he says in explanation, which is both an understatement and an exaggeration, but he doesn’t know how else to phrase it.

Jaster makes a sound that’s entirely unimpressed. “You're going to be the one to buff the scratches out of my armor,” he tells Feemor, who raises his hands in surrender, not able to fight his smile. It makes Jaster pause, and he looks Feemor over closely, then asks, “You’re healed?”

Feemor gives him a rueful smile. “Well enough. Your comm?”

Jaster checks it, then shakes his head. “Whatever deposits are here, we’re still too close.”

Feemor blinks, leaning over to look at the darkened screen of the comm unit. “That’s odd,” he says with a frown. “Mine was working all the way up here, right up until the lizard’s horn got it.”

There's a pause, and then Jaster takes Feemor's wrist, holding it up to check his comm as well. “It’s Jedi make? Maybe there's something in mine that is making it react strangely here.”

“Likely,” Feemor says thoughtfully. He can't think of anything specific in the Jedi design that would make his work better, but apparently there _is_ something. The more technically-inclined Jedi are always tweaking their designs, so maybe he just missed an upgrade in the mess of things with Qui-Gon and Xanatos. Either way, it makes contacting Xanatos impossible, and Feemor sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. He’s just…going to have to apologize. And hope that Xanatos forgives him.

The mission is important, too, and Feemor sets aside his guilt, his remorse, and pushes to his feet, using his staff to help him up. If there's no way to get back to his ship just yet, and no way to comm out, then he needs to focus on what he _can_ do, and apologize for what he couldn’t later.

This is a step in the right direction, though, he thinks, stepping past Jaster. The cave they're in is wide and open and bright, openings high above them letting in the sun. _Carved_ openings—they're overgrown, rough, but far too regular to be natural, and Feemor sweeps a look from the skylights down to the cave itself, where arches of stone crown a curving path that’s covered in moss and luminescent wildflowers. There's a set of stairs that are almost entirely hidden by a small stream that tumbles down them, cutting through the cavern, and beyond it Feemor can see even more light, a brilliance that speaks to open skies.

“Someone was here,” he says, taking a few steps across the moss to run his fingers over a column of stone carved into the wall. It’s plain, unadorned, but clearly made with a deft hand, because it’s beautiful even so.

There's a moment of surprise, and then Jaster pulls off his helmet, tucking it under one arm as he watches Feemor narrowly. “Tarre Vizsla, supposedly,” he says, like he’s testing Feemor's response. “He was supposed to have a workshop on this planet once. I thought the Jedi would know that.”

Tarre. The name resonates, and Feemor closes his eyes. That feels right, too. Ensnared Virtue was Tarre's, and someone brought it here after it was stolen from the Temple.

“I'm looking for something,” he says, turning to meet Jaster's gaze. “Something of Tarre's that was taken from the Temple after his death.”

Jaster pauses, considering this for a moment. “The Darksaber is with House Vizsla still,” he says. “So what—”

Feemor blinks, pulls back. “Tarre's _clan_ took it?” he asks, and can't help but frown. “Tarre left it to the Order with his death, not his clan. I swear, we would have returned it to Mandalore if he had told us to—”

“They _stole_ it?” Jaster interrupts, and his expression darkens. “You're sure? The Jedi Order was supposed to have it?”

“Yes,” Feemor says, and this at least he knows. Xanatos has always had a fondness for stories of Tarre Vizsla, and one of the youngest padawans, Master Tholme's Kiffar student, is always asking him for books about the man. Working in the Archives has been Xanatos’s biggest sanctuary, these past few months, and so Feemor has heard every detail of their research into him. “Tarre specifically brought it back to the Temple on Coruscant before his death and left it with the Jedi, along with several other things he had created.”

“One thing Tor very definitely never mentioned,” Jaster mutters, and Feemor blinks. Before he can ask who Tor is, though, Jaster huffs, and asks, “And this other thing you're looking for—that was one of the items he gave the Jedi?”

Feemor nods, pushing away from the carved pillar to start making his way up the moss-covered incline. Jaster matches him without pause, sliding a hand under Feemor's elbow, and Feemor doesn’t strictly _need_ it, but he slants a smile at Jaster in thanks nevertheless. “Master Drallig was sent word that someone found the remnants of an old chest, taken from the Temple during the fall of the Old Republic. The Order’s records as to what it is have been lost, but—it was Tarre's, and it was called Ensnared Virtue. Master Drallig sent me to see if I could find it.”

Jaster raises a brow, then leaps up to the top of the water-slick stairs and turns, offering Feemor a hand up them. Feemor takes it with relief, using is staff to steady him as he picks his way up the slick stone. “You were sent to find something unknown, with no clear location, and nothing to go on but rumors,” he says dryly. “I'm afraid to ask what you did to make yourself so thoroughly loathed.”

Feemor laughs, his balance wavering as a bit of waterlogged moss slips beneath his boot. Jaster catches him, a hand flat against his back, and Feemor turns a smile on him. “It’s not punishment,” he says, amused. “It’s an honor to be picked to leave the Temple while a Guard. It means the Battlemaster trusts us to behave honorably and finish our missions quickly.”

Jaster doesn’t look convinced. “Hard to finish a mission quickly when you have no information and no leads,” he says, “and a whole planet to search.”

Feemor just shakes his head. “The Force guides me. It led me here, and if I'm meant to find Ensnared Virtue, I will.” Bright sun touches his face, and he looks up with a smile as the cavern opens around them, the thick moss giving way to deep grass, a warm breeze sweeping across the open space. “See? The Force keeps us to the right path.”

Below them, deeply green and verdant, a valley spreads out. It’s huge, deep, with waterfalls cascading down the steep drop to split into rivers that carve their way between pillars of grass-covered stone, standing like sentinels above the trees. At the far end, almost obscured by the vast trees around it, Feemor can just make out the black spire of a tower, and he grins, delighted by the feel of this place. It’s _warm_ in the Force, soothing in a way Feemor hasn’t felt often outside of the Temple itself.

“You said there was a workshop?” he asks Jaster, who’s frozen and staring. When Feemor nudges him lightly, he twitches, then turns to look at Feemor for a moment before he turns and looks back out at the valley like he can't pull his eyes away.

“Yes,” he manages. “There were—records, and ledgers of costs for building it. Tarre had it made while he was Mand’alor, and I found the accountings. Nothing complete, or even certain, but—they mentioned this planet, this mountain range, and I thought—” He pauses, gaze tracing a path of overgrown stone that arcs into a graceful bridge where it crosses the river, then vanishes beneath a stand of trees so vast their tops are almost level with the top of the cliffs. “None of this was visible from the air. This whole valley—my scanners didn’t pick up any of this, and I didn’t see it, either.”

Feemor shrugs, not bothered by that. “If he was building things here in secret, it would stand to reason he would want to hide it,” he says. “It could be a Force-trick, or just a device to fool scanners.” Glancing around them, he takes a few short steps up to the edge of the cave, then leans over, and says, “I hope you're ready for a bit of a climb. That’s a lot of stairs.”

There's a quiet snort, and a moment later a hand on his waist spins Feemor around. “Arms around my neck,” Jaster tells him. “My jetpack isn't built to lift two, but carrying us down shouldn’t be too much of a strain.”

Feemor blinks. “You don’t need to—” he starts, but Jaster just raises a brow at him, and he breaks off with a chuckle. “Well, if you're sure.”

“Very,” Jaster says dryly. “Be careful of the downdraft of the rockets.”

With a laugh, Feemor steps close, waiting for Jaster to put his helmet on before he wraps his arms around his shoulders. “Well, I wasn’t exactly planning to wrap my legs around your waist,” he jokes, and the arm Jaster just wrapped around his back goes tight as emotion flares. Feemor doesn’t need to be a Nautolan to read the flicker of startled want, a kick of sudden, surprised desire that bolts through Jaster. His own breath catches, because he hadn’t meant it like _that_ but—

But, he thinks, and swallows, meeting Jaster's eyes through the darkened slit of his visor. He’s not exactly about to take it _back_.

“How did you want me?” he manages, and only an instant later realizes how it sounds in context. Heat scalds his face, and he bites his own tongue, embarrassed but not entirely sure how to correct.

Thankfully, Jaster makes a low sound of amusement, pulling Feemor right up against his armor. Feemor swallows hard, and he can't help but press a hand to those streaks of gold on the breastplate, like bright wings against the dark metal.

“Just like this,” Jaster says, and it’s perfectly even, could mean nothing at all. Except the rough leather of his gloves skims down Feemor's arm, and he catches Feemor's wrist, pulls it up over his shoulder, and—he’s still watching Feemor's face, quietly intent. “Hang on. We wouldn’t want to strain your ribs again.”

Feemor bites down hard on his tongue, because as Jaster's arm hooks around his back he’s thinking of _far_ too many ways to strain his ribs that would be worth the lecture from Stass afterwards. Jaster is _close_ , and Feemor has had Xanatos living in his rooms for months now, has been training so much he hasn’t had time for more than a few scattered hours of sleep, and his body is reminding him of what he’s been missing.

Like meeting a stranger in a bar, he thinks, amused at himself. There's just more adrenaline and mutual rescuing to contend with.

“Some things are worth a bit of strain,” he says, holding Jaster's gaze, and the hand on his back presses in, the edge of Jaster's thumb skimming one of the lines of his tattoos where it’s hidden beneath thick cloth.

“Let’s see if you're still saying the same thing when we make it to the bottom,” Jaster says, just a little rough, and a hand grips Feemor's thigh, the other tightens across his back, and then they're falling.


End file.
